


Left Unsaid

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Whump, sorry killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: Set in an AU in which Pan succeeded in turning Storybrooke into his new Neverland. When he captures Hook and Neal, Emma is determined to rescue them, but Pan is nothing if not devious.Shamelessly inspired by Firefly, though you absolutely don’t need to have watched that to read this. Killian takes a bit of a beating in this one (hence the rating, to be safe), but there is pay-off!





	Left Unsaid

 

“Sorry.” Regina tossed the note onto the table, looking thoroughly disgusted. “There’s no way to track where it came from.”

Emma made a face, trying to keep her growing panic at bay. “I kinda figured it was a long shot.”

“Now what?” Snow asked. She looked worried, one hand holding David’s, the other looking like it wanted to reach for Emma.

“Now I agree to the meeting,” Emma said.

Their reactions were instant, and predictable.

“Emma, you can’t!” Snow gasped.

“No way,” David said.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Regina scoffed.

Emma raised her voice. “Look, neither of them would even be here if it weren’t for me. I’m the one who found Neal and brought him back here. I’m the one who dragged Hook into all this.”

Regina scoffed again. “He did just fine dragging himself.”

“The point is, he could have left, and he didn’t,” Emma insisted, not all that eager to let the conversation dwell on her desperation to rescue Hook. Since their return from Neverland, they hadn’t had much time alone, but the tension between them simmered whenever they were in a room together. Emma had stopped trying to deny it weeks ago. But she hadn’t sought him out, and he hadn’t pushed. She’d always assumed they had more time.

And, damn it, they still did. They had to. “I am _not_ leaving him in Pan’s hands.”

“It won’t help them if you get yourself captured, too,” David said.

“I’m not getting captured.” Emma took the note and held it up. “He’s agreed to let me come over and negotiate. And we know he wants this crystal ball thing, so I’ll trade him.”

“Should we be giving that to him?” Snow asked cautiously.

Regina scoffed. “In my experience, they’re more hindrance than help. Let him waste his time on prophecies if he wants.”

“And it’s not worth more than anyone’s life,” Emma added firmly.

“What if he just takes it from you?” David asked.

Regina shook her head. “He can’t. Same reason he couldn’t just steal it from Gold to begin with. Scrying stones need light magic to activate them.”

Snow shook her head. “I still think this is just another one of his games.”

“Could be,” Emma agreed. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll go in, I’ll try to get them out, and if I can’t... Regina can track me, and we’ll know where they are, and _then_ we’ll get them out.”

“And what if he’s thought of that?” Snow said.

Emma didn’t have an answer to that. That was the problem with Pan: you never knew if you were outwitting him, or playing right into his hands.

But he had Hook and Neal. He’d had them for several hours already, and Emma was trying very hard not to think about what that meant, but the thought was always hovering at the edge of her mind. Several hours were more than enough to do some serious damage, if Pan was feeling vindictive. And considering that these were the two men who’d managed to escape from Neverland twice, and that this was Pan they were dealing with, _vindictive_ was probably putting it lightly. “It doesn’t matter. I have to try. If you have any other ideas, let’s have them. Otherwise I’m doing this.”

“She’s got a point,” Regina said thoughtfully. “This could work. We can take him in an open fight, it’s finding him that’s the problem.”

“Right,” Emma said. “David, I’ll set up GPS tracking on my phone. Regina, you do... whatever tracking magic you can do. He might figure out one, but hopefully not both.”

_I hope_ , she added silently.

 

*  *  *

 

Storybrooke had become a strange place under Pan’s rule. He didn’t seem interested in fighting or killing anyone, he just played his twisted games. The threat of it lay like a shadow over the town, the terror of becoming his newest source of amusement keeping most people indoors.

When Felix tugged the bag from Emma’s head and she could see again, she was standing in a field she didn’t recognise, facing a storm cellar. The hatch was open, and dim light spilled out from below.

As she climbed down the stairs, her heart caught in her throat. Hook and Neal were chained to the back wall, their arms over their heads and their faces bloody. Neal was sagging a little against the restraints, pale and exhausted. Hook’s head was bowed, but he was standing up straight, and when he looked up, Emma was taken aback by the fury in his blue eyes.

They widened when he saw her, and Emma caught a brief flash of terror in them—for her, she knew—before his face became an angry mask again.

“Emma!” Neal burst out. His voice was weak and breathless, but he went on, “No! Run, get out of here—”

“Hello, Emma.” Peter Pan was sitting on a chair, apparently at his ease, showing no sign of discomfort at being in a torture chamber. “We’ve been looking forward to seeing you, haven’t we, boys?”

“You let her go!” Neal snarled. Emma was perversely glad that, despite his obvious exhaustion, the fight hadn’t gone out of him yet.

“If only I took orders from you,” Pan said, feigning sadness. Then he brightened again. “But I don’t, so, why don’t you be quiet and let me talk to the Savior.”

“I was about to say the same thing, actually,” Emma said, crossing her arms. “Let them go.”

“Afraid I can’t,” Pan said. He got to his feet and sauntered over to Hook, producing a knife from somewhere and forcing the pirate’s head up with it. “Baelfire and the captain both have debts to pay. Isn’t that right?”

Hook said nothing, but his eyes flicked to her, intense as always—filled with warning and an unspoken hope.

_Tell me you have a plan._

She pressed her lips together, tried to tell him without words not to worry. Her heart was pounding at the sight of him, strung up and helpless and obviously in pain. Pan had taken the hook from his brace; it lay on top of his coat and tunic, crumpled against the opposite wall. In view, but far out of reach. His shirt sleeves had ridden down along his arms, so Emma could see the manacles digging into his skin, blood trickling down his forearms. That alone had to be agonising, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Beside him, Neal was in much the same shape, though it seemed to be taking more out of him. Emma knew why, even as she wished she didn’t. Neal wasn’t used to this kind of pain and torture; Hook had endured worse.

And Pan was playing with them both, trying to break them like he broke all his toys.

“If they have debts to pay,” Emma said, striving for an even tone, “maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“Maybe.” Pan moved on to Neal, who shrank away from him instinctively. Hook’s eyes flicked over to him, and Emma saw his jaw clench as he fought the impulse to snap.

That was another part of it, she realised. That was why they were both here, together. Neal, because he’d break first. And Hook, because that would break him in turn.

Emma felt sick, but she shoved the feeling away. “Come on, Pan, you’ve had your fun. You agreed to this for a reason, so let’s make a deal.”

“I do appreciate your willingness to walk into the lion’s den, Emma,” Pan said, running the knife’s blade over Neal’s collar bone. A thin line of blood welled up, and Neal hissed in pain.

“Lion’s den?” Hook repeated derisively. His voice was a rough snarl. “Don’t worry about him, Emma, he’s terrified. Just a little boy trying to prove he’s a man.”

In one fluid move, Pan took the knife away from Neal and stabbed it into Hook’s side. A glancing blow only, but enough to wrench a half-suppressed scream from the pirate, his voice cracking with it. Emma took half a step forward before remembering that she was outnumbered and outmanoeuvred—Pan already had a knife in hand, and he had all the leverage here.

“Who’s terrified?” Pan demanded. “You’ve been scared witless ever since she showed up, Captain. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Touching, really, if a bit pathetic. Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, when it comes to love? It’s a weakness.”

“You’re the witless one,” Hook gritted out. Blood was welling from the cut in his side, but he was ignoring it. Neal was doing likewise with the cut below his neck, eyes wide and frantic as he looked over at Hook.

He’d done it on purpose, Emma knew. He’d drawn Pan’s attention away from Neal on purpose.

“How clever,” Pan said, rolling his eyes. “Really, Emma, I don’t know why you even _want_ him back.”

“Just want to take him off your hands,” she told him evenly, trying to keep the fear at bay and her emotions off her face. She had to get them out of here. Digging the crystal ball from her jacket pocket, she held it out. “How about I give you this thing, and we’ll leave you in peace?”

“How kind of you.” Pan turned away from Hook, and back to her. He was smirking. “I’ll make you a deal. You give me that thing, activate it, and I’ll give you one of your boys back.”

Emma’s heart gave a painful sort of leap, her gaze automatically flicking past Pan to meet Hook’s, then over to Neal. “I want both of them.”

He shook his head. “You’re not getting both of them. One or nothing, that’s how the game works. Take it or leave it.”

So this was the angle. She should have known. There were always layers, with Pan. Making her choose was just another element of this damned situation, another attempt to sow discord among them.

Emma swallowed. She would come back, she told herself. Regina and David were tracking her, and Pan had shown no sign of noticing. She could get out, get help, and come back.

It was reasonable, but it did nothing to quell the panic rising inside her. How was she supposed to walk away and leave one of them behind?

But that was emotion again, and emotion wasn’t going to change the situation. Right now, she could rescue one of them, or neither. “Fine.”

Pan’s grin grew wider. “Excellent. Then it seems you have a choice to make.” He stepped aside and gestured grandly, as if he was a show master and the two battered, bloodied men his greatest display.

Emma knew who she had to pick before she even looked. She’d never done this before, she’d never endured torture like this herself, and she couldn’t imagine how much pain they must both be in. All she knew was what she’d seen since she’d come down here. She made herself meet Hook’s gaze again, and something passed between them—she really, really hoped it was understanding. He _had_ to understand.

“Him,” she said, and pointed at Neal.

For the briefest moment, Pan looked surprised. It was Emma’s turn to smirk, even as something inside her seemed to shrivel up like paper in a fire. “I’m sorry. You wanted me to agonise over it, right? I pick him. Let him go.”

Pan recovered himself, and laughed. “Very well. Sorry, Captain, looks like you’re not wanted after all. So much for second chances, or impressing her, or whatever it was you were hoping for.”

As Pan snapped the chain above Neal with magic and let him fall to the floor, Emma looked at Hook again. She wanted to try and tell him without words that she _had_ to, that she’d be back, but he wasn’t looking at her. His face was a mask again, all cold blue eyes and anger. Emma hoped he understood.

Or, if not, that his anger at her would help him last a bit longer.

“I do want him,” Emma couldn’t help saying. “You’re the one who made me choose. Neal? You okay?”

Neal had staggered to his feet, wild-eyed and worried, his hands still bound. “We can’t leave him—”

“Here,” Emma said roughly, holding out the crystal ball with one hand and letting her magic flow into it, while reaching out to Neal with the other. The ball began to glow, and she tossed it to Pan, who caught it.

He nodded at Felix. “Bag them and bring them back.”

“No!” Neal burst out.

“Oh, and Emma—” Pan smiled again. “Nice try with the tracking spell. But I’m afraid Regina wasted her time.”

Emma swallowed, not even trying to hide her consternation. Let him think that he’d bested her.

The only problem was that Hook would probably think the same, and she couldn’t reassure him, not with Pan watching. She kept her eyes averted from him, and Neal. If she looked at either of them, she’d crack. She’d cry, or break down, or try to fight, and that would ruin everything. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“No,” Pan agreed easily. “See you around, Baelfire.”

“I’m not lea—” Neal began.

“Neal, let’s go,” Emma said, her voice harsh from her effort to keep the fear from it. If Pan changed his mind—

But he didn’t. It was the hardest thing Emma had ever done, letting Felix put the bag back over her head and march her back the way she’d come. Guilt weighed her down. Every step felt like a betrayal, and she couldn’t get the image of Hook out of her head. Was Pan torturing him again right now? Would he taunt him about Emma’s choice? Would it be worse, now, with only one victim to command Pan’s full attention?

She should have stopped keeping him at arm’s length ages ago. She should have told him how she felt, so he’d know it now. But she hadn’t, because she’d been too scared, and she hadn’t needed to. She knew how he felt. There’d been no need for her to open up, and so she’d kept him at a distance, and stayed quiet, comfortable. Safe.

Selfish.

Stupid.

If— _when_ , she corrected herself—she got him back, she’d make it up to him. With interest. No more hiding.

Felix made one last taunting remark, then the Lost Boys disappeared, and they were alone.

“We have to go back for him!” was the first thing Neal said. He looked in no shape to go anywhere, barely able to stand, but his face was set. He looked almost as desperate to rescue Hook—Killian, his name was Killian, and calling him Hook was just another way to keep her distance from him—as she felt.

“And we will, but not now,” Emma countered, tugging at his arm as gently as she could. “Come _on._ ”

 

*  *  *

 

“Neal!” Snow gasped, hurrying forward to hover anxiously near him as he made his way into the loft. “What happened?”

“Where’s Hook?” David asked.

“Still with Pan,” Emma said, helping Neal to the couch. “Did you get the location?”

David held up his phone. “Right here.”

Relief cascaded through her. Emma took out her gun, checked it, and slid it back into her waistband. “Okay. Good. Let’s get going.”

“Right now?” Snow asked.

“You want to wait until Pan has a chance to move him?” Emma snapped. “Sorry. I just—I’m going to get him back.”

“Pan’s not gonna wait,” Neal added. He was slumped on the couch, waving David away as he tried to help. “I’m good. You need to go. Pan hates Killian, so he’ll be...” He took a deep breath. “He’ll be doing his worst.”

“Figures,” Regina said, sounding resigned. But she was already standing by the door, radiating impatience despite her attempts to sound reluctant. “Let’s go save the pirate.”

Emma led the way, which turned out to end at an abandoned old farmstead. The storm cellar was across the yard from the empty house, the hatch now closed. Two Lost Boys sat outside it, clearly on guard duty. They jumped up when they caught sight of Emma, but Regina waved a hand, and they slumped back to the ground, asleep.

Emma shot the lock off the hatch, she and David tugged it open, and the world exploded into shouting and chaos.

The cellar was much too small for fighting. Felix aimed a blow at David, who ducked, grabbed the club, and wrested it from the Lost Boy’s grip. Emma followed on David’s heels, already focused on the far wall. Hook— _Killian_ —was still hanging there, his stance no longer steady. His arms were slick with blood and sweat, his shirt ripped, and he seemed to be having problems keeping his feet under him.

Pan stood beside him, holding a knife to his throat. “I’ll—”

But fury was thrumming through Emma’s veins now, and she didn’t stop to listen, or think. There was no time for conscious decisions. There was just anger, cold and clear, sweeping her fear away. There was a moment of perfect, deadly clarity, like finding the perfect come-back in a battle of wits, and Emma didn’t question it. She let her magic go, guided by instinct.

Pan yelped as the knife seemed to grow hot in his hand. Killian hissed as the blade against his throat burned, but then Pan dropped the knife.

One of the Lost Boys launched himself at her, but Emma twisted out of the way and punched him. He staggered towards Snow, who kicked his legs out from under him.

“Regina!” Emma called, drawing on her magic again and seeking out the hook that was still lying on top of Killian’s coat. “The chains!”

She waved her hand, and the hook vanished, to reappear in Killian’s brace. Moments later, the chains snapped, and Killian fell forward. He caught himself and turned towards Pan, a savage look on his face.

“Sorry, Captain,” Pan called, taking a few steps back. “Not today.”

Killian growled and launched himself at Pan. Pan merely danced back and snapped his fingers, and he and the Lost Boys disappeared. Killian crashed to the ground, landing on his side with a pained grunt.

“Killian!” Emma stumbled over to him, her legs a little shaky. “You okay?”

“Aye.” His voice was hoarse, and he was having trouble bracing himself back into a sitting position, his face still contorted into a snarl. Emma knelt down beside him, hand hovering over his shoulder but afraid to touch him, in case she made anything worse.

“We’ve got to go!” Snow called. “They might regroup and come back.”

David hurried over, crouching down beside Emma. “Can you stand?”

“Aye,” Killian ground out again, his jaw clenched as he pushed himself off the ground.

“Stop,” Emma said. “Just—Regina, take him back to the loft. We’ll meet you there.”

Regina shook her head. “You’re the one with healing magic. I’ll send you both back, just hold onto him.”

Emma nodded, and wrapped an arm around Killian’s shoulders. Purple smoke enveloped them, there was that weird light-heavy sensation that always accompanied these trips by magic, and moments later, they were back in the loft.

 

*  *  *

 

Emma still hadn’t figured out healing completely, and her magic was a little shaky after her attack on Pan, but she managed to close the worst of Killian’s cuts before he insisted that she turn her attention to Neal. Henry had been doing his best with the first-aid kit, and she was proud as hell of him, but there was only so much a kid could do.

By the time she was mending Neal’s wrists, her magic was only coming in small spurts, like a flickering light. Regina and her parents got back just as she was debating whether bandages might be the better way to go, and Snow and David immediately got to work. Killian was still lying on the floor beside the kitchen island; David helped him over to the bed while Snow took the first-aid kit from Henry.

“Sorry,” Emma told Neal, “my magic’s not... I can’t make it work.”

“You made it work enough,” he said, with a faint smile. “It’s okay. I’m good.”

“I can take over,” Snow offered, holding up a roll of gauze.

Neal nodded, tapping Emma’s hand with his bloodied one. “Go on. He—go on.”

Emma blew out a breath, nodded back, and left Neal to her mother’s care. Now that the adrenaline had faded somewhat, she was nervous, unsure. But she had to talk to Killian. She had to explain.

He was lying back on her parents’ bed, still in his ripped shirt. Most of the cuts were healed, and the fight seemed to have gone out of him now, his handsome features pale but almost relaxed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

His eyes snapped open and straight to hers. “Swan.” He cleared his throat. “How’s Neal?”

“He’s fine. How are you? Be honest,” she added, almost hearing the “fine” before he could say it.

His mouth quirked. “I’ll admit I’ve been better, no doubt, but I’m all right. And in your debt. Thank you.”

He wasn’t angry. And that seemed to break something inside of her, almost physically tugging her forward, towards him. She shook her head as she stepped over to the bed and hunkered down beside it. “I’m sorry for leaving you there. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t _want_ to, but I didn’t know what else to do, and...”

“And Neal would have fared far worse,” he finished, when she trailed off. “You had to get him out of there. I was hoping you knew that.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. So she hadn’t imagined the understanding between them. He’d been right there with her, making the same decision with her. She should have known, really. “I figured he’d take his time, and without Neal around, you only had to worry about yourself.”

He smiled, his eyes drifting shut. “Aye. That’s it.” He sounded almost triumphant. Like he was proud, or glad, that she’d understood and they’d worked together like that. “How did you track me down?”

“GPS on my phone,” Emma said. “Regina used a tracking spell, too, but, well.”

“I’ll admit that did give me pause,” he said, cracking one eye back open. “Though I rather hoped it wouldn’t deter you. What’s GPS?”

“It’s like a location tracker.” Emma almost explained more, realised that she’d need to explain what satellites were and probably more besides, and settled for, “We used David’s phone to track mine. I was kinda hoping Pan wouldn’t be up to speed on technology from this realm yet.”

“Clever.” And there was that damned triumph again, blazing in his blue eyes. “You’re a hell of a woman, Swan, have I mentioned that?”

“Once or twice.” She swallowed again, against the rising tide of emotion. “Do you need anything? Water?”

“Your father already gave me some,” he said. “Even let me have rum.” He tried to wink at her, failing miserably when both of his eyes blinked shut. “You know, I think he’s warming up to me.”

The noise that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her insides still in turmoil. Unable to help herself, she reached out to brush the matted strands of hair off his forehead. He smelled like leather and dust and sweat, but she didn’t care; she leaned closer than strictly necessary, his skin warm under her fingers. “Must be.”

He was still looking at her, his eyes softening. “Mhmm.”

A trickle of blood had run from his hairline into his left eye, and there was more of it on his cheeks, his arms, his chest. She should probably be taking care of that. “Hang on,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She fetched a bowl of warm water and a wash cloth, pausing only to reassure the others that Killian was fine, or would be. When she got back, Killian smirked and raised one eyebrow when he caught sight of the bowl.

“Not more of that Jell-O stuff, I hope?”

“It’s water,” she said, feigning exasperation. “I just want to wash the blood off you.”

“Worried he’s ruined my good looks?” Killian asked, with a flash of that heart-stopping smile.

“I don’t care what you look like,” she said impatiently, setting the bowl on the bedside table and getting to work. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over him, and began cleaning his face.

“Oh, come now, we both know _that’s_ a lie,” he said. “Without my devilish good looks, I’m just a thorn in your side.”

His tone was light, but she didn’t have it in her to go along with the jokes this time. Not after she’d left him behind to be tortured. It had been the only way, yes, but he’d been hurt more because of it, and she wanted to make up for it. More than that: she wanted to stop pretending.

And she had made a promise to herself, after all.

“No,” she said softly, brushing the washcloth down the side of his face. “You’re more than that.”

He swallowed, and she found herself wanting to trace down the line of his neck. “Am I?”

His tone was still light. It was another opportunity for her to lighten the mood again, to take the easy way out with a “yeah, you’re a giant pain” or “more like the whole briar”, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Yeah.” She couldn’t keep looking at him, not when his eyes were so intent on hers, so damn hopeful now, but she couldn’t look away either. So she leaned down, brushed her thumb along his cheek, and kissed him.

He sighed into her, and she felt him relax as the rightness of it settled around them. She parted her lips to deepen the kiss and taste him properly, slow and languid. It was nothing like the last time, the first time, in Neverland. She hadn’t let herself dwell on it then, how good his lips felt against hers, how she wanted to melt against him and just _feel_.

This time was almost familiar, achingly gentle, and it felt like coming home. She held his face between both hands, still holding the wash cloth in one, the other sliding up into his hair. His arm went around her and he gave a little tug, pulling her closer.

Then he grunted, a pained sound, and Emma pulled away at once. “Sorry—”

“It’s all right, love,” he murmured, his arm still around her, keeping her close. “’s good.”

“I _know_ that hurt,” she said, trying to be stern and failing miserably.

He huffed out a laugh, his smile almost blinding. “I don’t care.”

If he hadn’t been lying on her parents’ bed, she might have stopped caring, too. As it was, she shook her head, trying not to notice how close his lips still were, how good it felt to be held by him, even just like this. “Yeah, well, I do.”

He grimaced a little as he moved his arm—still stiff after spending almost an entire day with his arms wrenched over his head—and caressed her cheek before tangling his fingers in her hair. “Do you know, I’m starting to think that perhaps I ought to get myself captured more—”

She leaned back a little and poked him lightly in the chest with the washcloth. “Don’t even think about it. Remember all the bleeding you just did?”

He grinned. “Aye, but your reaction has made it all so _very_ worth it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How about you just ask next time?”

He sobered, though the smile lingered on his lips, his eyes soft and bright. His hand was still in her hair, caressing the side of her head, gentle and warm and so, so good. “Would that work?”

Normally, she would have hesitated, maybe even on purpose. But she didn’t have it in her anymore. There was no denying the way her stomach flipped when he smiled at her, the terror she’d felt earlier—and the almost calm knowledge that he was on her side, that they were in this together, whatever “this” happened to be.

“Yeah,” she said, reaching up to place her hand over his and nuzzling into his palm. “That’ll work.”

For a moment, they stayed like that, caught in the moment. He was looking at her with something akin to wonder, and she felt it, too; a sense of amazement at how _easy_ it all was. How it felt—not just good, but right.

Safe.

Then came the sound of footsteps and rustling denim, and David poked his head into the room. “Hey, just wanted to—” His eyes flicked from Emma, who had straightened but still had her hand wrapped around Killian’s, to Killian, who was lying back against the pillows, no longer pale.

“—check on the patient,” David finished, eyebrows rising as he took in Emma’s hand, Killian’s hook resting against her leg, the colour in their cheeks. “Hook? You... seem to be okay.”

Killian grinned at him and curled his hand around Emma’s thumb, his thumb brushing over her fingers. “Couldn’t be better, mate. Couldn’t be better.”

“We’ll see about that,” Emma muttered. The man was barely healed, still covered in blood, his shirt in tatters; there was definitely room for improvement.

Killian raised his eyebrows at her, and she could see the innuendo hovering on his tongue. She raised hers right back, sweeping her gaze over him to tell him that she could see all the ways in which he was definitely _not_ in peak condition right now. His half-smothered grin told her that he had a few ideas for how she could improve his condition.

Another look, and they agreed—she forcefully, he a little reluctantly—that maybe when he was lying in her parents’ bed and her father was standing right there was not the time to say _any_ of that out loud.

Killian grinned, and squeezed her hand, and she understood that message, too: _later_.

And she’d probably never admit it out loud, but she was already looking forward to it.


End file.
